Departure
by theshadowhitokiri
Summary: One shot. Jedi Master Depa Billaba awakes from her coma during the attack on the Jedi Temple. Written as a conclusion to the events of Shatterpoint.


I recently reread the novel Shatterpoint, which I loved immensely. This is my take on what happened to Master Billaba after the story played out.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own STAR WARS.

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I lie floating in a bed that cradles me invisibly; it is the blackness of space. The darkness is completely full and unbroken, as if all the stars have burned away, leaving only a shell of nothingness in their place. And then my eyes jerk open, as if my body is responding to some unheard call. It takes all my energy to climb out.

The sudden intake of light is painful to me; it has been so long since I've seen light, even if the gentle haze that greets my eyes comes from an old glow rod bolted sturdily to the ceiling. My hair is still dripping with the remnants of nutrient-rich nectar from the bacta tank that still clings to my body—the tan robe that once marked my sacred position as Jedi still clings to my limbs like rock-ivy on an old building.

The temple is in chaos.

I could feel the darkness that surrounded the temple like it was something palpable and alive. It could feel it breath, inhaling and exhaling in harmony with my own lungs. And I understand now how I have woken up. The darkness in my mind has merged with the darkness engulfing the temple right now. It was as if the jungle of Haruun Kal had come to Coruscant in all its glory.

The hate and the sorrow of the battle raging above floods my mind through the force, but it is quite quiet down in the temple basement, where I stand now. My footsteps echo coldly on the permacrete floor; I feel so alone as I let my feet wander.

Really, subconsciously, I know where I am going—the pull of destiny is heavy on my unworthy frame. The strings in the force that bind us to each other are not so easily broken to have fallen apart already. At least not while we both still live.

A fire has started now, and my tongue is tormented by the tastes of smoke, pain, and fear. Young padawan learners fighting for their precious lives against a foe who used to be their brother, a foe far too strong and powerful for them to even hope to overcome. Their suffering strikes me, but it seems so far away, like some horrific tale of famine and death for a remote and forgotten planet on the outer rim. Like all the atrocities on Haruun Kal.

The guards had, understandably, abandoned the holding cells, and I look with pity upon the prisoners, trapped alone in their small quadrants and waiting for the temple to burn up and consume them all. The ones who are conscious have no fear in their eyes, only cold resignation. I strain my neck, looking for one face in particular among the crowd. I cannot feel his power, and that concerns me, but in the Force I know he is not dead. It is not until I look into the last corner cell, that I see the familiar outline of an old partner.

Kar Vastor.

I cannot believe what they had done to him. Kar has large scars on his wrists, but at least his hands have been reattached from his last battle with Master Windu. Intravenous tubes run through his elbows and thighs—one obviously a tranquilizer, keeping the Karuun unconscious, the other, presumably, keeping him fed. I am surprised by how skinny he has become. His broad, muscular back and strong, well-built shoulders, which I have such vivid memories of during my time on Haruun Kal, seem sinewy and diminished. He is still so tall though, almost the height of a wookie. Kar looks so pathetic and weak kept under lock and key.

The thirteen other high security prisoners stare at me in silence, hoping that I would set them free. But I have no intentions of liberating anyone other than Kar; they are more than deserving of burning down with the temple. As are we all.

I place my left pointer finger on the security scanner, hoping against hope that my data is still in the computer system. I thank the four moons of Coruscant as a match shows up, and I am granted entry. Kar's door swings open before me, and I rush to his side. Despite my greatest care to be gentle, his arms and thighs still bleed when I try to pluck out his intravenous tubes. I really hope he will wake up soon; I know he is too big for me to carry. Reaching through the Force, I probe through the turmoil on the upper floors to check on the progress of the fire. It continues to grow, like a bubble threatening to burst, and I fear the ceiling above my head will not last much longer.

I hear a low growl as Kar stumbles into wakefulness. The harshness of the surgical lights burns his eyes, and he squints—he face, contorted into a predatory smirk, stares into mine, only a few inches away. His growl translates into words in my mind.

"Depa," he says, "you still live."

I lean into him, so glad that he is alive. And some of the emotions that I have been holding back for so long come pouring out. The dam finally breaks, and I pull the Karuun closer. Kar tugs himself up on wobbly feet, my face lies against his chest; I can feel his heart racing against me. It is the closest I have ever been to a man with being in battle, and that sad truth makes tears spurt to the edges of my eyes. Kar sees my distress, and leans his face against mine; his lips brush against my cheek. We share a moment together—a Koruun and a Chalactan embracing each other as the darkness comes to fruition around us.

The moment is broken when the burning building settles above us with a loud noise. I know we need to leave, but have concerns about Kar's ability to walk or defend himself if we are attacked. Kar just looks at me and nods as if he knows what I am thinking and wants to prove me wrong. He bounds out of the room showing no signs of weakness.

Our escape becomes a race against the clock. We must avoid the flames, but also try not to get involved in any of the fighting going on above us and outside. I wish to get offplanet, so the airfield on the south side of the temple, where the starfighters are kept, seems a logical destination. We are climbing stairs now; Kar picks me up and leaps up three steps at a time, pushing aside the first two clone troopers we see effortlessly, their necks snap before they have a chance to radio in reinforcements. The white clad bodies fall to the ground with the sickening thud of dead meat.

Kar reaches the doorway and pushes it open with a strong pulse from the Force. Our eyes behold the light from the stars for the first time in months. I realize that this is probably Kar's first time to see nightscape of Coruscant, as he was incarcerated in the temple holding cells from the day he was brought here. That sad fact really eats at me now for some odd reason. I notice Kar's muscles go rigid, and I move my head around to stare in the same direction as him. Another, far less pleasant glow greets our wide eyes. The airfield is burning.

It is as if all of the fuel has leaked out of the motor that powers our future dreams. We have no idea what to do or where to run. All of a sudden, voices and flashes come to life to our right. Blaster bolts rain through the air, as a battalion of clones, maybe 20-30 strong, begans to run towards us with full intent to kill. My lightsaber flashes jungle-green, rebounding blaster bolts towards the firing troopers, razing them down. Kar, weaponless, stands behind me—his eyes closed, drawing in Force-power. Eventually the firing slows, and both Kar and I dive into the melee. I tear clones down with my lightsaber, Kar with his bare fists. Eventually the assault stops and we are surrounded by bodies. Not waiting around for more attackers, we take off away from the temple, Kar's long loping strides and my quick, shorter strides leading towards the burning remains of many of the galaxy's finest Jedi starfighters. It quickly becomes apparent that the starships had been burning for a while already, likely doused with fuel and lit to prevent airborne escape from any ill-fated Jedi.

The walk through the airfield is like moving among a field of ghosts. The burning husks of starships loom just at the edge of sight, spewing orange flames and rancid fumes. The field itself was covered in a dense smoke, like some sort of sinister Dagobah bog buried under fog. I am able to recognize the ships of Agen Kolar and Kit Fisto burning in the rubble. I know they are dead. And Mace as well…This thought makes my eyes water, even as I search in vain for his starship. Perhaps he got away? But no, I can feel it in the Force that he is dead. Mace and I have not always been in agreeance, we have had our arguments, but I loved him in a way I will never be able to love Kar.

Kar grunts, and my eyes follow his to converge at one final starship, forgotten and unburning in the corner of the field. Its purple trim is unmistakable. Mace's final gift to his padawan. Tears come to my eyes again. I look to Kar for reassurance, but his face is a study in stone, solid and cold.

Arriving at Mace's old starship, I see two huddled, hooded forms sitting together, hiding under the ship. They stir as we approached—breathing heavy and frightened, hoods falling down. Two scared eyes stare up at me—a young zabrak with burns and wounds on his face, greasy brown hair pulled back in pigtails, with the signature braid of padawan learner. In his lap lies a young blond girl, unconscious and bleeding profusely. I feel a twang of pity from my earlier life; their eyes beg me to take them with me, save them from this nightmare. But I am Jedi no more, and I open the hatch to the ship with the Force. It will be a very tight fit for Kar and I as it is.

I turn around to look for Kar, and am surprised to see him kneeling down at the level of the injured girl. Always the _lor pelek_, Kar sinks into the Force, his hands over the girl's chest wound, binding flesh to flesh and slowing the girl's bleeding. It takes Kar about five minutes to do a reasonable repair job, and when he stands up, the girl open her eyes and comes to. Neither the girl nor the zabrak speak, eyes wide and staring. I don't know whether they recognize me or not, but they certainly don't recognize Kar. The zabrak stands up, shivering while trying to shield the girl with his arms, leading her away. I hope they can make it.

To fit into Mace's starfighter, which was built for only one, I have to sit on Kar's lap. He holds me like a child holding a doll. I will do the piloting, as Kar's experience at the helm of a spacecraft is very limited, if not nonexistent.

"Where to?" rings the voice in my head, translating for Kar's brooding grumble.

The starship leaves the ground, but I don't bother to answer. Instead I squeeze Kar's hand warmly. This is enough of an answer for both of us.

I set the coordinates for Haruun Kal.


End file.
